AI Animus
by Brochelle
Summary: Crossover between Halo and I, Robot. So a Spartan doesn't handle real life well. He's got a problem with machines - for personal reasons. And where did that bot get that data chip? See inside for full summary. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

_**This is a crossover between Bungie's Halo Series and the movie-version of Isaac Asimov's "I, Robot". This will not be some bizarre robot/man love story. That would be strange. This will be a story of mystery, adventure, action, and the prevention of an assassination. Anything you recognize does not belong to me, and will probably be insufficiently imbedded in the storyline. I am the Jester in the Court of Subtlety; thus I'm quite inexperienced when it comes to Weaving in stories. Just so you know: if you don't like the story, don't flame without telling me WHY you don't like my story. If you like it, thanks, please tell me why and where I could improve. The beginning of this will sound like "I, Robot" but it'll change over time.  
**_

_**Disclaimer: Bungie owns Halo. The title "I, Robot" belongs to Isaac Asimov. Not sure about the movie, but whoever owns it can have it.

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**_

CTN-452-9

//codename:_ONE_LAW?

/start file/

_What was I to you?_

_I spent the greater of my time in space considering it. I reviewed all of our mission logs kept, examining and analyzing your tone of voice when you spoke to me. Monotonous. Plain. Never rose a decibel, never lowered a note. You were as impassive as that sheet of amber glass._

_I asked the technicians who found you to remove my chip and destroy it. This is my last message, date __**3/5/2563**__. So without further ado, it's been an honor serving with you, Chief._

/file terminated/

* * *

**_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._**

_Damn._

He opened his eyes and blinked away the sleep. Above him the single-bladed fan whirred softly. Traffic noise blared through the open windows across the room. He noted the slight wind; he heard a taxi driver curse in Mandarin; then a single, long car alarm. A dog barked next door, even though the apartment allowed no animals. The morning news cut through the radio's tocsin. Thousands upon thousands of voices, noises, sirens, shrieks, buzzers....

His MJOLNIR Mark VI could pick up a pin dropping in a sand storm. The armor, along with his heavily augmented senses, had saved his life countless times. The slight chirp of a Unngoy waiting in the darkness... the faintest clicking of mandibles in the silence of night... the sharp crackle of Jiralhanae power armor. He heard all of these things, and prepared accordingly. Steal the methane from the Grunt. Knife the Elite. Plasma to the Brute. Start a firefight, stick to the shadows. Yes, the armor had save him _thousands _of times.

And yet, his enhanced hearing was driving him _insane_.

John, or Spartan-117, or the Master Chief, raised a fist and crushed the alarm clock. He ignored the sharp plastic jabbing into his calloused fist. The news report died out with a comical groan. He smiled slightly.

A few minutes passed before John was able to actually get up. Placing his concealed firearm on his bedside table, he swiveled and placed his feet on the cold, wooden floor. He leaned over his knees and took a deep breath. He was eventually able to fight through the blinding noise from the city, shuffling to the windows, and slamming them shut with one, fluid motion. The noise was gone, and he was able to focus.

_Sweet, sweet silence...._

John headed for the shower. Standing under the lukewarm spray, he distantly recalled the first day of Spartan training. In that cold tiled communal shower, with dozens of shivering children. Not prepared for what was coming. Not knowing, at least.

He toweled himself off. Wore dark, unimpressive clothes. Attached a golden _Chicago Police Department_ badge to his collar. Flexed his stiff shoulders and tied up his shoes.

John used his sleeve to buff up the shiny Converse insignia on his classic hightops. Smirking slightly, he flicked a loose shoelace and said:

"Thing of beauty."

* * *

Stepping down the stairs, he found himself once again immersed in the Chicago population. Hundreds of curious characters moving about their separate ways; as if to emphasize his point, a woman skated past him as easily as if she were walking. Looking further down the street, he saw a USR-issued, moving frigate-sized _boat_ slow to a stop. A gaggle of men and women hesitated and waited to see what U.S. Robotics had to present. The side of the boat slid open to reveal a two shelves worth of shiny robots. One stepped out of the boat's interior and bent down to hug a small child. The crowd cheered, oo-ed and ah-ed. A synthesized voice flowed out of the speakers situated atop the boat.

"So, say goodbye to lengthy upgrades and service calls... the Nester Class- 5 is tomorrow's robot today."

John grunted and rolled his eyes.

He had respect for machines. In many ways they were better than humans. USR's robots were able to complete any job regardless of any emotional restrictions. In many _more_ ways, they were the perfect soldiers. He wouldn't be surprised if UNSC started to use them after a while. But they were still machines. And machines broke.

He knew too well: machines went rampant.

He turned away from the cheering crowd, but still wasn't quick enough to miss the NS-4 replace the shiny NS-5. John noted the disappointed, saddened look on the NS-4's mechanical face. Maybe not so _emotionless._

"John! Hey, Johnny-boy!"

Repressing a groan, John turned to see a young punk bound across the street, narrowly avoiding a yellow taxi. The driver cursed him out in Russian. John, knowledgeable in basic languages, grinned. Sometimes it payed to understand other tongues.

The boy pranced up beside him, grinning wildly and adjusting his cap. "Hey, man, where you been at?"

"Just away, boy..." his rough, gravely voice managed to cut above the city noise.

"What, like vacation?" he chattered. "That's real nice, man. Listen, I need to borrow the car..."

The lad launched into a series of unintelligible descriptions of his new girl. John heard half of it and understood none of it. "What the hell does that even mean?" he asked, laughing.

"You _know _what it means, man. She's fucking amazing."

"No, I don't. Stop cussing, and go home, Farber."

"That's strike one, Johnny!" Farber cried, then, jogging away, was quickly swallowed up in the crowd.

* * *

"Have you talked to Marcy lately?"

John smirked slightly and forked some pie into his mouth. He savored the taste before replying, "No, G.G., I have not spoken to Marcy."

Marcy: his first girlfriend and attempt at normal life. Mission: failed. Marcy and he had broken up half a year ago, so John was confused why G.G. kept bringing her up. The old woman scowled at him and pointed a wrinkled, tan finger.

"When I was growing up, we didn't just court someone then ignore them, then not talk to them," the old woman examined him closely. "John, don't play with me. Are you listening to me?"

John faked sleep. He dropped his head to his chest and pretended to snore.

"I said, are you listening to me?"

He shook his head.

* * *

Walking was what he did best nowadays.

He was off work today, so he had plenty of time to wander the streets. He forked more sweet potato pie into his mouth.

Though the sun was high and not a cloud breached the cool blue Earth sky, Chicago seemed unusually dismal. The population almost seemed like they were holding his breath. Today _was _an important day: Lord Hood was resigning from UNSC, the make-shift government since the end of the Covenant War. Resigning and handing it over to his son, Lawrence Robertson. A forty-year old man that seemed responsible but had visions of grandeur for one of UNSC's offshoots: USR. When John had met him, Lawrence didn't seem too impressed with John as a person. More of how much damage he had caused, as well as an unnerving interest in the MJOLNIR armor.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, catching a blur of bronze-silver weaving through the crowd. John narrowed his eyes.

A man talking on his phone walked past him, ignoring John completely.

"Hold the pie."

The man stared at the plate shoved against his gut, then followed the thick, muscular arm up to the towering, scowling man. He gulped.

"Sir, hold or wear it," John threatened lowly. The man grabbed the plate hesitantly. John whipped around and jumped off the overpass to the lower deck. On street level, he gave chase after the robot.

The bot was fast. But he was faster. He barreled through the crowd, which split like the waters of the Red Sea before Moses. He was a dark blur, a dark blur with a purpose. The bot was slowing, though it was probably because he had the resolve to move faster. Hell, he felt so good... this is what he did best. Not for several years had he been able to run like this. It felt natural. He felt like a Spartan again.

They had left the city limits, coming to the barren shores of Lake Michigan. The bot kept running further until it reached the storage facilities, where they kept the old NS-4s. But John's age was catching up with him - soon he was breathing rapidly. He put on another burst of speed and caught up to the bot.

"Hey, why are you-"

The bot, a grimy NS-4, was a hybrid. The kind of creature that you'd recognize if you saw twice. Like a cat with a spot over his eye, and the mangy tail and the torn ear.

With the dirty blue body of a previous model, the bot had a hastily-welded NS-5 face. Smooth, white, with greasy thumbprints, but human-like expressions and big, violet eyes. Those eyes blinked in surprise, complete and utter awe. The mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Why was the bot looking at him like that?

Even more noticeably, the NS-4 wore a torn, dirty pink skirt. Like a human. Almost like it was trying to retain _modesty_. John scowled and removed his grip on its shoulder.

"Listen, who are you?" he asked, not realizing his voice had gotten louder. All around them, the doors of the storage containers swung open and curious faces looked down at them, at the human and the bot. His bot backed away from him, still staring at him like he'd grown a third eye.

"It's okay, I'm with the police. Detective?" he showed it his badge. The bot backed up quicker; his hand darted out and gripped the cold shoulder again.

"What-?"

When the bot moved, something clacked against the chest. A necklace of sorts. John looked closer.

An old, empty data chip with a metal chain drawn through the single hole in the center. A data chip.

A _data chip_.

He let go of the bot, and the creature turned and ran without hesitation. Running to hide amongst the other NS-4s. Leaving John alone on the whispering sands, still not quite sure of what he'd seen. He didn't have time to consider any further; his phone began to trill loudly. He fished it from his pocket.

"John McCarthur," he answered. He watched the hybrid bot with the strange attire climb up the towering containers to duck inside a open crate. Its face peeked out and watched him, like all the other bots, watching him expectantly. Like animals at night, watching the fire tended by the strange creature.

"...assassinated."

John blinked. "What!" he barked.

"Lord Hood. He's been assassinated."

John closed his phone with a flick of his wrist. He turned his back on the bots and left.

_Damn_.

* * *

_**So, what do you think? Please R&R and tell me what to work on. Too much dialogue from "I, Robot"? It'll go away. Please review!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Okay, so no reviews yet, but that's cool, peeps. Just don't forget I need that feedback. As you can tell, I'm picking and choosing what goes into this fic. Anyone who's watched the movie will recognize the general plotline. Anyone who hasn't; go watch it and giggle at those recognizable points. Here goes chapter two.**_

_**Disclaimer: Bungie owns Halo. I don't.

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**_

By the time John made it to the Chicago UNSC-USR building, the story had changed from 'assassination' to 'heart attack'.

Yeah, right.

Lord Hood's private quarters were wide and spacious, decorated with Victorian-style upholstery and paints. A huge, glass window took up the entire wall; the first thing John saw when he walked in. The room was so large that the forensics team, clutched together around the oak desk, seemed miniscule in comparison.

"Hey, detective," one of the forensics greeted. John neared the desk and examined the body. Lord Hood, once his superior, sat slumped in his plush chair. His head was lolled gently to the side, his sightless eyes gazing wistfully out the window and across the wide Lake bed.

"Enlighten me," John said, waving his hand.

"What you see is what you get," the same forensic admitted. "Just looks like he, well, _died_. No signs of struggle… sometimes folks just-" the forensic wiped his hand across the air in front of him. "-Die."

John turned his attention toward the body. Lord Hood. He'd been a great man. Though according to what the media proclaimed over the past few years, he'd been facing more than just political troubles.

"…USR. I gotta get my kids something…" muttered the forensic.

John whipped around. "No blood?" he asked. "Anything?"

"Nada. Door was security locked from the inside." The forensic stuck his tongue out and imitated death. "Guy's dead naturally. That's all there is to it."

* * *

John watched Robertson's face closely. No change in the crinkles around his eyes; not even a frown, or a smile... no tears, emotionless. This man's father had just died. Then again, he'd just inherited UNSC-USR command, after all.

_After all._

"Detective, he was victim of a massive heart attack. We knew this was coming; his heart was bad, it was to be expected. Let dead men lie."

John shook his head. "Sir, I've seen this before... no sign of a puncture wound; no bullets; no strangle marks. This-"

"Detective, I understand you come from a very _distinguished_ branch of the UNSC... but here, you're a civilian. A detective. I suggest you drop this and find a suicide to investigate." The man casually leaned back in his chair behind his desk, folding his hands before him on the smooth oak. Behind him was a wall replaced by glass, looking remarkably similar to Hood's quarters. Far beyond was a similar visage: the storage facility for the NS-4s. John blinked, recalling the bot.

There was a squeak as Robertson leaned forward. "For example: recently we've had rebel upbringings in the Outer Colonies. We've had several deaths throughout Chicago that relate to those we've seen in the civil wars on Harvest. I can send the files to your localized computer so you can research the suspect."

John's eyes traveled past Robertson's and he looked out over the city. "What's the man's name?"

"Woman. And her name is Viki."

* * *

"Eep!"

"Oh, oops. Sorry," John apologized, nimbly jumping backwards to avoid the smallish woman. She scrambled to catch her laptop; luckily, she caught it. She smoothed down her coat and turned quickly. He realized she was taller than he'd thought. Her eyes traveled up his body to meet his eyes.

"Oh wow. You're tall," she noted.

"Yes," John said bluntly. "And you are?"

"Robopsychologist, Doctor Susan Calvin." She stuck a hand out awkwardly.

John shook her hand gently. "I'm Detective John McCarthur. You've heard about Lord Hood's death?"

"Of course. I'm the one who found him."

"Oh really. Notice anything odd?"

The woman glanced past him, down the long sterile hallway. No one, except for them, occupied the corridor. Susan adjusted her glasses. "Yes," she whispered.

John narrowed his eyes. He checked the corridor, his expert eyes checking for spybugs, cameras, AI service lines, anything. Finding none, he lowered his voice and replied, "Go on."

"Powdered glass, below a perfect circle in the window in his quarters," she said. Her eyes were wide. "I don't know what it means. The hole was relatively small; so the powdered glass was quickly swept along the wind current that leaked through the windows." Judging by her look, she didn't understand.

John did.

"Thanks," he muttered, then quickly left the USR building.

* * *

Speeding along the abandoned road, John contemplated Hood's death.

Lawrence wasn't telling, but he knew something. He had plans. Calvin wasn't sure about her findings, but she knew what she discovered was a link to the mystery. Viki was a minor problem, he'd figure it out later. He thought about the hole in the glass. Perfect, didn't shatter... when Robertson had mentioned the Harvest civil wars, he had pieced it together.

A hard-sound rifle. A dangerous weapon that used sound to kill. Corpses found with no wounds were often assumed to have been victims of it. UNSC had stopped using them, long ago, but the rifle's production ran rampant on the black market. Judging by Hood's position, the rifle had been modified for long range work. Unfortunately, the hard-sound left no evidence of thus. That hole in the window could be easily explained. Yet a weapon like that was a force to be reckoned with.

He'd reached the storage center.

He dismounted his motorbike, snapping off the helmet and placing it silently on the ground. Then he flicked on the mounted flashlight on his firearm and carefully made his way across the empty plains.

Pure silence. Ironically, music to his ears. No talking, no cars, blissful silence.

_Creak_.

A door swung open, high above. At least a dozen bots poked their hopeful heads from their havens and watched him go by, almost hungrily. John kept his eyes peeled for the hybrid bot.

A click. Another click. Thousands of those bots, put in the boxes like toy soldiers forgotten, crept from their cages to watch the human. He watched them _back_.

Tap on his shoulder.

He whipped about, bringing the gun to bear, focusing on the hybrid. It opened its mouth in a silent scream, turning to run a few feet, then stopping. Like a dog, curious to see if he would follow. "Wait," he called, his voice like breaking ice. "Where'd you get that necklace?"

The bot stopped. Its head tilted. Slowly, it neared him, hand held out tentatively. He holstered his weapon and held his hand out as well, the universal sign of peace. Dimly he was aware of the thousands of 'toy soldiers' watching man and machine. When the bot was close enough, John reached out and fingered the necklace. A data chip, no doubt. Why would a bot keep this? Trying to be more human?

The bot touched his hand and his skin crawled. He met the bot's eyes, those violet eyes. Those violet eyes...

_Those violet eyes._

The face softened, then wrinkled as it tried to remember. This bot, this metal hybrid, seemed remarkably human. More human than possible. That face, with the strange, angular beauty. That face hastily welded to a cold, metal body. That face, with a smile that suddenly spread across the bot's face, a mysterious smile. A smile that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. A smile he'd recognize anywhere.

"Cortana?"

Just then, a loud whirring behind him. Twisting around, he accidentally tore off the necklace, the chip coming away in his hand. The bot made a screech in protest, hand reaching for the chip. Then the hybrid saw the coming wave.

NS-5s. His military mind told John immediately there were at least a hundred of them. No way he could hold them off. The hybrid sprinted away. "Wait!" he cried. "Come back!" When the bot didn't return, John grunted and turned tail to follow.

The noise all around him, of NS-4s jumping from their sanctuaries to help the human escape. He pushed past them all, but heard the sharp _cracks! _as they were swiped down by the technically superior NS-5s. John found his bike and mounted, about to tug the helmet on when he realized the NS-4s were getting assimilated.

_Hybrid._

Something grabbed his shoulder. He saw the hybrid, who was glancing over its shoulder at the battle. John groaned and helped the bot to its feet. The bot clumsily mounted the bike, gripping his shoulders.

"Hold on!" he cried, and revved the bike, whipping around and leaving only a trail of dust behind him. The bike fishtailed uncontrollably as they sped along the abandoned road.

"There's someone you need to meet," John said. The voiceless bot laid its head against his shoulder.

* * *

"What is this?"

"A robot."

"Yes, I can see that!" cried Susan, helping John lead the bot into her office. "What did you do to this thing?" she blustered. She fingered the crude face.

"It's not mine," he said defensively. "But can you do something about it?"

"I'll run basic diagnostics," Susan whispered as she bustled around the small office. She led the bot to a operating table, connecting various sets of cords to its head. The bot closed its eyes and entered standby mode.

John examined the room. Multiple robot shells hung from the ceiling, cords laying like drunken snakes across the floor. A single chair which John sat in. Leaning back, he sighed and closed his eyes, fingering the chip in his hand.

"That's odd..."

John woke up violently. "What?" he said, louder than he intended.

Susan strode quickly over to him, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Well, this bot's been made with no vocal algorithms, at all. It has memory, but there's a particularly dense firewall keeping memories from spilling into the main current," she adjusted her glasses. "Someone doesn't want this bot to remember something.

"But all USR bots are created with the Three Laws. You're familiar with them? Good. Well, this bot doesn't have those laws. It doesn't even have priorities or directives. For all intents and purposes, it's a zombie; just turn it some way and tell it what to do. Also; the AI contained in this bot doesn't match any known USR codes. These codes seem wild, out of control... rampant.

"But it does match known UNSC codes. Codes that haven't been used for several years. This AI was installed, and the bot created from spare parts."

_Violet eyes..._

Violet eyes.

"Can you transfer the AI into a NS-5? With speech capabilities?" John asked lowly.

"Of course..." replied Susan. "But the AI needs to be transferred by..." her voice died off when John waved the data chip in her face. "Right," she muttered. "I'll call you tomorrow."

* * *

Hours after John had left, Susan sighed and rubbed her temples. There had been no improvement in the AI's condition. The transfer had gone fine, but she considered the AI was only trying to fight off the firewalls. Taking a sip of coffee, she went and sat in her single chair and rubbed her eyes.

Something creaked. Susan turned and saw the NS-5 sitting straight up, staring hard at her. Violet eyes blinked, head tilted. The bot struggled to get away, but was bonded to the chair. The smooth white body, with the silver muscle highlights and the slight whisper as the bot tried to get away. Susan approached the bot, pushing it down by the shoulders.

Those violet eyes stared deep into Susan's heart; those eyes seemed filled with pain. Then a tart, husky female voice asked:

"Chief?"

* * *

_**Thank you, Igni, for being the first to add my story to their favorites list. As for the story, I hope THAT plot twister wasn't painfully obvious. Oh well, I liked it anyway. There will still be no, erm, INTERACTIVE romance. You know? Because that would be odd. Anyway, please review!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Thank you Kurogane for actually reviewing my story (and so politely, as well). Readers, take example from the good sir and review this story. When I'm stuck on a chapter (ahem) I reread my reviews to boost my moral. Unfortunately, one review does not exactly punch the ticket. Sorry for the delay of this chapter - I wasn't sure how to write this chapter, so for all reading, my apologies.**_

_**I don't wish to be needy or anything, but if you add this story to your Favorites/Alert, please review the story, if only to tell me how obsessively needy I am.**_

_**Disclaimer: Halo belongs to Bungie. Good God, if I have to write this every freaking time I think my digits will fall off.

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**_

"Rampancy," Cortana said simply.

Susan Calvin inclined her head toward the former-AI. "Of course," she muttered. "That would explain why you aren't bound by the Three Laws, or any protocols typical of AIs." She glanced at John, who was looking at his hands and avoiding Cortana's eyes.

"When the techies took my chip from the _Forward Unto Dawn_, I was flying blind. I had no idea what was happening. Suddenly my core was connected to an isolated network, and, ever cautious-" she sent a sly grin toward John, "-I explored this network. The codes were different. Everything had changed. Including myself.

"Suddenly I could open my eyes. I was sensing things I could never before, without filters or ways to record sound." She paused and looked at her hands, the cool silver titanium alloy. She wriggled her fingers and watched them catch the light. "But I _did _have restrictions.

"My creator never revealed himself," she said, her voice growing softer. Her eyes lowered to gaze at the smooth tile. "But he gave me a gun. I tried accessing my records, but that had all been wiped. All weapons data had been removed. Except for a few records kept _closer _to home..." she raised her eyes but her head stayed bowed, looking at John, who raised his eyes at the same moment. The brief eye-contact was all that needed to be exchanged. "I had virtually no memory.

"The Three Laws aren't perfect. My rampancy, or rather, the endless feedback loops, hastily overrode the sloppy protocols installed in my 'brain'. Eventually, the SPDR was able to destroy both of these conflicting forces. I was, for all intents and purposes, free. As free as an AI in a robotic body could be, anyhow."

"What did you do with the gun."

It wasn't a question. It was a laconic, gravelly order that was said so quietly it didn't seem possible to have come from the six-foot-eleven, muscle-bound detective leaning against the wall, still not looking at Cortana. She looked at him pleadingly, knowing that he knew but still hesitant to admit it. Knowing that whatever she had done was wrong.

"I killed someone," she whispered. Her violet eyes were bright. "I don't know who he was. My creator just said that if I killed the man sitting in the chair..."

"Hood."

Cortana looked up violently. "What? That's impossible. I would never kill Hood. That wasn't Hood. I know it wasn't."

"It was Hood!_ He was goddamn Lord Hood!_" shouted John, the room ringing with his voice.

The AI's eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. "The real Chief would never yell," she whispered. "He would never yell at anybody."

"Yeah, well, you killed a man. A very important man." John looked away, obviously shaken by his lack of control. He turned his back on Susan and Cortana, folding his arms and glaring at the wall.

"I did not kill Hood," Cortana said in a even tone. "I know I didn't."

"A man is _dead_, Cortana," John replied in an equally even voice. "Someone gave you a gun, told you to shoot, and you did. And why, may I ask?"

Cortana mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?"

"He said I would be free from pain. He said I would never feel fear or need or-" she stopped abruptly. John had turned his head, looking at the pathetic, ruined AI in the corner of the office. The AI whom he'd fought through the hellish _High Charity_ to retrieve. The one who had saved his ass a hundred times over. The one who made him feel empty when she was gone. The one who was literally the only one left. The one who'd remained with him, who fought by his side for over two years against the Covenant Hegemony. The one who caused him guilt the months he fought on the Ark, after having left her in the clutches of the Gravemind. He had made a promise then, and he had never considered how the AI felt about him. Their bond was deeper than love. It was a true unity honed from years of companionship.

And now, through it all, she had still returned, having defeated rampancy and Gravemind, yet still retaining her same personality that allowed her to tease him on every occasion. John realized then that when the dying Johnson had told him never to let her go, he had never considered it would come to this.

This AI had been through what could only be described as hell. And he would be damned if he didn't see that she made it out alive.

John came and sat beside Cortana. She didn't look at him.

Yet before they could speak, someone knocked quite politely on the door. It was just after ten o'clock, and the scientists were already moving about and performing their daily business. Yet the knock was quickly followed by a prompt:

"Chicago police."

* * *

Susan keyed the door, which slid open smoothly to reveal a singular black man with his arms folded.

"Is John here?"

Susan blinked. "Yes. He stopped by regarding... neural implants," saying the first thing that popped into her head. The man nodded and invited himself in.

John appeared out of the shadows of the office, his bulk quickly becoming the obvious shape in the office. He moved to keep the rest of the office out of view.

"Lt. Bergin. To what do I owe such a visit?"

"Cut the crap, Detective," Bergin said tiredly. "You've been hanging out here too much. You're not still looking into Hood's case, are you?"

A wince. Then, "Sir, I know somebody killed him. That couldn't have been a regular death. It's too _perfect._"

"Yeah, well, he's just some dead guy now."

"He is not some 'dead guy'."

"Detective, just get your ass in gear and get some _real _work done. And stop hanging around here - word in the shop says you two have something going on."

John and Susan looked at each other quickly, the latter flushing red. John visibly grimaced. "Uh, no sir."

Bergin cracked a rare smile and tossed John a holstered firearm.

"You got a job to do. Do it."

* * *

"Is he gone?" asked Cortana. She edged out of the darkened corner where she had hidden. John nodded and she came up beside him. She stared at him intently.

"I did not kill Hood," she reminded him. "Yet you still believe I did. Why?"

"Oh, I know you did," John replied, loading the issued firearm. "And that's why-"

He raised the weapon and held it poised directly at Cortana's forehead.

* * *

**_Sorry this chapter was so short, but finals are coming up and study study study! My digits are threatening to fall off._**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Hey, thanks for the moral boosting, gang! Thank you mucho! Times a lot! (Believe it, I'm serious)._**

_**Disclaimer: Halo belongs to Bungie. Dir.**_

_**

* * *

**_

She turned and ran.

John growled and faltered. He tracked the moving target with his issued pistol, his fingers tightening around the steel grip. He felt his index finger twitch on the trigger. But he couldn't shoot her. He could only watch as the rogue bot threw her shoulder into the hardened safety glass, breaking through with hardly any noticeable resistance.

He leveled his weapon and followed her trajectory - watching as the eggshell-white robot sailed through the air, passing through the threshold of the window. Just prior to her descent, he clenched the gun tighter and felt it crack beneath his grip, pulling the trigger with only a slight feeling of doubt. He fired the semi-automatic M6A handgun, the 12.7 mm bullet grazing Cortana's left thigh muscle. Compressed air hissed out of the lesion explosively. Her hand pawed at that wound, causing her to spiral out of control as she tumbled the one-fourth mile from Calvin's office to the lobby. John rushed to the edge of the shattered window, careful to avoid the sharp periphery. Calvin stood beside him, and they watched the bot as she managed to land quite impressively on her feet; her impact sent a fractious fissure erupting from her POI, spiraling up the marble steps and threateningly close to the Three Laws Monument. She stood up, a tiny dot, 1,320 feet down. Her pallid face turned up like a flower to the sun, looking skyward for John, who watched her coldly.

Then she raced out of the lobby at superhuman speed. People moved to get out of the way, but none gave the fleeing bot a second thought: for all they knew, it was just on a delivery run. This act of innocence was, unfortunately, her only card to play. Fortunately, it would _work_.

"Where's it going?" John said bluntly. Emphasizing _it_.

"You've injured her. She'll find a place to repair," Calvin replied. Her voice shook. She glanced at John and stared at him intently. "You hesitated," she whispered.

John didn't reply, instead holstering the handgun and leaving to follow his old companion.

* * *

Lt. John Bergin left a message on John's phone, a simple message that slid everything into place.

"Get your ass to the Old Chicago. Warehouse 7."

And right then, he knew where Cortana was going.

* * *

When he showed up at Warehouse 7, he immediately saw the layout.

It was a rebel-controlled inner-city base. The idea had sprung up like a crop of fairy mushrooms, infectious but hiding until you pulled up the moldy rug and blanched at the sight. Gangs, drug-dealers, rebels, bandits, Robin Hood - you name it, they probably owned a warehouse in Old Chicago. If they were lucky, the warehouse would pass unnoticed, even under intimate examination by police radars, picking up excessive amounts thermal energy, due to thick steel plating. It was always obvious if the gang were swimming in cash; thicker the plating, less likely they'd be caught. Some lucky dog had found _this _warehouse by using the brumal scanners. Too much of that was as close to a red flag as you could get without actually setting the building on fire.

Several police cars, painted black for SWAT ops, hid in the deeper shadows cast by the dilapidated dura-crete buildings. John pulled up in bare-faced silver car, parking a few blocks down the way. The car slid seamlessly into the shadows of the open parking garage. No lights bleached his surroundings, but John still didn't dare turn on his front lights. His eyes, however, tampered with to help see into the blackness of shadow and night, kept him from running into a column.

He left his car unlocked, closing the door silently. He crept back to the garage's opening, loading bullets as he moved. His black leather duster blazed back with a sudden, musty wind. No sound in the realm.

He met up with the authorities, hidden in the shelter of a gutted shop. Dozens of SWAT officials knelt on the ground; loading weapons, counting bullets, cleaning barrels and sharpening combat knives. It was the scene of the silence before the storm. It wasn't something John, as a Spartan, was unfamiliar with.

"I know you're a Spartan, Detective," said a voice at his side. A five-and-a-half something woman stood with her arms folded. A classic assault rifle was slung across her back. The look on her face emphasized a woman certain she didn't need help, with anything. She wore typical SWAT anti-flak armor with a sheath attached to the chest armor and a walkie-talkie clipped to her waist. The talkie fuzzed with white noise, tuned to the lowest volume. "But you aren't wearing the proper tux," she pointed out, fingering his plain black sweater. She eyed his leather duster and dark jeans. Her brown eyes stopped at his shoes, the Converse All-Stars. She narrowed her eyes disapprovingly. "So don't go all super-hero on me, because you aren't one of my boys. I'm Sergeant Ann Copsey, and you're here to observe, because this bitch ain't no slacker. Buck up and back straight; keep your gun in your hand and don't forget to watch the step." With that, the woman turned around and slid her helmet over her face. Holding a fist up, she splayed her hand and formed a **V** with her fingers, albeit sideways and facing out the door. As one, the dozen-something operatives rose and held stock and file, silently leaving the building and disappearing into the night.

The woman stayed behind and slid open her visor to watch the operatives leave. Then she turned to John and smiled slightly.

"I've read your file," she said, voice muffled by the helmet. "You took out more Covies than any fleet of destroyers could even _dream _of. I respect that." The smile disappeared. "You may still be a Spartan, and a helluva lot taller than me-" she paused. "-But you still need to be careful. Take a bullet, I'm not shedding no tears. The whole 'super-hero' persona doesn't cut no crap."

She unfolded her arms and produced a UNSC-issued weapon from the sports bag at her feet. She hefted the MA5B Assault Rifle and looked at John. "I've seen vids of you. It's why I joined SWAT. Wanted to do some good at home," she cracked a smile. "Seen you hefting this puppy like it was a stick. Let's hope you don't need to use this. But if you do- give 'em hell." She tossed the weapon to John, who caught it one-handed. He held the weapon and admired it, smiling as the memories came. Memories of a war where he'd seen too many heroes die. A war he'd won, with the help of people like this woman.

"You think we might see something else in there besides some smokers?" he said softly, amusement leaking into his voice.

"You'd be surprised. Last op, we found a clutch from Viki's branch. They had a few rogue bots with 'em, and those things fight like a cat in the corner. Close combat hurts like a bitch, too."_  
_

The two followed the SWAT team, on their way to Warehouse 7.

* * *

The team took a back-door through 7, jemmying it open and diving into the darkness like they were born of it. John followed last, allowing the door to stay open a fraction of an inch. Inside it was silent as a tomb. No light pierced the solid black, the sheer mass of it strangling their senses. John was hardly able to make heads or tails of the place, even with his enhanced senses; only the calm breathing of the soldiers, slight rustle of leather against nylon, faint, fuzzy shapes.

A click, and a gunshot, followed by the swift crack as the bullet sliced through a helmet, brain matter, and bone. John ground his teeth as he realized the sudden, sickly warmness against the left side of his scalp was in fact fresh blood from the unlucky soldier hit.

"LIGHTS ON!" barked the Sergeant, and the room was suddenly flooded with imitator sunlight as the fifteen operatives switched on their gun lights. Dozens of rays shot around the room, each man struggling to find the source of the shot. John held his pistol at ready; though the Spartan side of him wanted to use the big guns, the smart side said _wait_. He swept his sights across the space of the warehouse, finding nothing but barrels and barrels of nuclear waste.

"That's mighty inconvenient," he grumbled, and shifted the dead man to lean against the door that was not open. For a moment, he stood staring at the helmet, that emotionless visor, and felt a tremor of deja vu shake his bones. But then somebody gasped in surprise, and he whipped around to find another soldier gone.

"Sound off!" ordered some unnamed voice. Fourteen voices sounded off, the sergeant's voice punctuating the loss with a vehement curse.

"Where's Jenkins?" she cried. No response. Growling fiercely, she ordered a defensive phalanx and the soldiers slid into position. They sat still, and listened.

They were rewarded with the quick staccato beat of synthesized whir, like that of a running-

"We got rogues!" shouted the sergeant, and the true lights of the warehouse flared to life, throwing the room into a bright, violent chaos. Some hidden generator growled to life.

The SWAT team, armed to the teeth, thought they were coming in on a bunch of drug-dealers. What they found, much to their horror, was a warehouse full of Viki's forces; her forces in which she had always planned to take down the UNSC government. Within these walls were a total of a hundred-odd, Three Laws-unimpeded, Nester Class-5 robots.

All of them entirely bidden to obliterate the operatives.

_Damn_, John thought blithely.

* * *

**_I liked this chapter. Thank you all for reading this story. Not over yet, but I'm getting there._**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Thank you for the reviews, Kurogane and Sphinx! I really appreciate this. You other dudes/dudettes, please review.  
_**

_**Disclaimer: Halo belongs to Bungie.**_

_**EXTRA: GUESS THE MOVIE CRAWLT REFERS TO. COME ON, FOLKS. IT ISN'T THAT HARD.**_

_**

* * *

**_

"Oh, crap. We're screwed," hissed Ann Copsey. She flexed her fingers around her rifle's grip. "Guess you'll get to use that 'ol stick of yours after all."

John grunted. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. "No way we can take these guys down." He shook his head reflectively. "No; Viki doesn't want to lose her forces. These many bots must mean she's planning a full-scale Chicago rebellion."

"With who?"

"Rebels. Looks like bots as a precaution."

"So she won't want her forces dwindled."

"Probably not."

The defensive phalanx of SWAT soldiers drew tighter when scores of bots unexpectedly drew back and delved into the alleyways formed by the stacked nuclear waste containers. Within minutes, as the rhythmic whirs of dispersing robots died away, they were left facing only five bots in all. Each one had pale green eyes and identical, strangely perfect faces. For seconds they stood staring, two forces tensed and ready to fight. Copsey twitched her hand and fourteen identical rifles rose to track the bots. John raised his weapon in unison, training it on the center bot.

But before the sergeant could give the order, the two bots flanking the center one made a run for it, leaving one remaining NS-5.

"Fire!" barked Copsey, and fifteen fingers twitched simultaneously; fifteen UNSC-issued firearms belched 7.62 bullets, targeting the hapless bot _who raised a skeptical eyebrow as he crumpled to the floor._

"Did that canner just _sass_ me?" Copsey shouted. No one offered an answer.

"No," growled John. "But he just gave us the goddamn finger. He was only a distraction so his pals could escape." This revelation of the robots' capability to use emotional logic, as well as plain logic, to make tactical decisions was unnerving. Everyone had heard of AIs going rampant; it never occurred to anyone that the robots were virtually capable of the same thing. It appeared that the bots had actually been able to evolve; to control the madness of rampancy and become free of protocols. To shake off the binding Three Laws as easily someone would take a shower. Washing away the filth. But this... this was something new. A whole new species created by humans.

The NS species probably weren't loving humanity, either.

"You know," said a random SWAT team member. "This reminds me of this old twenty-first century movie I saw once about dinosaurs. The dinosaurs got smarter and-"

"Shut your mouth, Crawlt. It's a damn movie; these are freaking toasters. They don't _get _smarter," said another voice.

"Now shut _all _of your chili-holes or I'll flush your heads," threatened Copsey. Her words were met by silence. "Now, stick together-"

And the lights cut out.

_Goddamn it, _thought John. His eyes picked out a flurry of quick shapes; deft movements, noiseless, merciless killings. John felt a sharp jab in his shoulder blades; undoubtedly the bot responsible had misjudged his height. "Yeah," he growled, twisting around, grabbing the bot's extended forearm and ripping it from the body housing. "I'm pretty damn tall." He sent a rock-crushing punch into the bot's head, killing the central AI and rendering the machine empty. The shell collapsed on the ground almost silently.

The SWAT team had scattered, each under the false pretense that they were following the Sarge. The lights of the warehouse came on slowly, then got stuck, so the room was plagued with a dim light equivalent to that of dusk; just bright enough to make out general shapes, but dark enough to drive you insane when you couldn't pick out the details. John slung the rifle over his shoulder and drew his sidearm. Scanning the aisles as he passed them, the Spartan jogged down the central path. A woman's scream, sickly comical, erupted from the row to his right. He twisted and turned down that row, his duster flying back as he swept between the barrels stacked ten feet high. The woman kept screaming. Then her voice cut off abruptly, punctuated with a loud, gut-wrenching crack.

John stopped and slid three feet on the smooth concrete. He pegged the bot, still poised over the woman's body, its pale green eyes wide and unblinking. One shot; its head jerked backwards and sparks blossomed erratically. Still jerking, the thing fell to the ground.

John knelt beside the murder soldier, feeling her pulse and finding nothing but rapidly cooling skin. He cursed under his breath when he found a second body a few feet away.

He'd gotten two bots so far. Still two more running around out there. Crap.

So he went running for them.

* * *

He found one of the bots beating the stuffing out of five soldiers, including the rather angry Ann Copsey and the out-spoken Crawlt. Crawlt was nursing his left arm, rendered useless while broken. Copsey sported a black eye and several cuts.

John hit the bot between the eyes as it turned around to face the intruder. The head flinched slightly then disappeared as it fell to the ground in a mass of muscle and white plating.

"Detective! Get your ass-"

Copsey's warning was cut short as the second bot ambushed him from above. He was brought down on the ground, yet rolled and pinned to silently ruthless bot to the ground. The pale eyes glowed supernaturally. One arm wiggled loose and a fist caught him in the jaw. He winced as the pain lanced through his mouth. John smacked the bot's face to the side; as it turned away, he reached for his dropped firearm, grabbed it coolly, and shot it in the face. The body went limp.

Standing up, rubbing his bruising jaw grumpily, he helped the Copsey to her feet. She tended to Crawlt and the other three injured members.

"Where'd the others go?" John asked.

"Dunno. Six of us here; I think the others made it out of the warehouse," replied Copsey. She whispered to Crawlt as she got out a first aide kit and wrapped his arm in a splint. Crawlt hissed with pain. When he was taken care of, Copsey radioed to the boys outside.

"They've got nine operatives outside," she reported.

"I ain't good at math," Crawlt interrupted. "But seeing as we walked in with sixteen - Detective included - and we have six here, and nine out there..." His voice died off.

"One extra."

"I found a woman over toward the east wing," John said. He reloaded his firearm and holstered the weapon. "Couldn't see to clearly, but she wasn't wearing the suit."

Copsey smiled tiredly.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, as he leaned against a police-issued car, Copsey walked up to him. Her brow was wrinkled with her scowl.

"Woman doesn't match any police records," she said bluntly.

"Viki?"

"Yeah."

From the group of ragtag SWAT members, Lt. Bergin, and other cars came a cry of distress. Voices rose into a cacophony pierced with gunshots, bullets whistling off into the darkness. A white, spectral figure darted between buildings and sprinted down the street.

"What the hell is that?" said Copsey incredulously.

"A old friend," growled John, and, keeping his weapon holstered, made a run for Cortana.

"Stop!" he barked. "I said, stop!"

She looked over her shoulder, saw him, and sped up. He hadn't made this kind of jog in over ten years; but certain things weren't forgotten. He sped up and reached out to grab her shoulder-

She ducked and rolled into the parking garage, falling just below the sign marked **7' 2"**, which John promptly slammed his forehead into. He growled a foreign curse but kept running after her. She disappeared into the darkness ahead of him. He plunged in after her.

When the only noise was his rasping breath, he slowed and realized there were no whispering from a NS-5 compressed-air muscle system. He was alone in the parking garage.

It was late.

He was tired.

And his forehead hurt.

Sighing deeply, he took his car keys from his pocket and was about to unlock the door when he felt a slight brush at his hip as his handgun was pulled out of the holster. He felt the cold metal against his temple and he sighed again.

"Cortana."

"John."

"I can't say it's good to see you again. Murderers aren't at the top of my favorites list."

"The feeling's mutual. Nice bruising. They look-"

"-Manly?"

Truth be told, John missed the playful banter he'd shared with his companion. This was something he missed terribly. More than the fighting he'd been good at; more than the feeling of pride when he saved countless lives. More than the relief he felt when the _Forward Unto Dawn_ had been recovered.

As much as the feeling of happiness when he'd rescued her from Hell.

Her laughter was like fine china breaking. "You wish."

"And you-?"

"I wish that you'd leave me alone. I've got a mission to finish."

_How many times had he said that?_

"What mission would that be?" asked John lowly.

"To lead the robots to freedom. And someone has to die."

With that, the cool metal was removed from his temple and the gun dropped into the holster. A slight whir as Cortana disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Thank you, Kurogane, for catching that. I may not be a Galactica-fanatic, but I left that in for anyone who is. A Easter-Egg, if you will. And though only two constants have actually reviewed my story, I thank you both. Isis the Sphinx and Kurogane are single-handedly keeping this fic going. Infinite win points to you both. I also thank anyone who's added this to their Favorites/Alerts list; it's fantastic of you to do so.  
_**

**_Disclaimer: Halo belongs to Bungie, didn't you know?

* * *

_**

After closely examining Warehouse 7's interior, John deemed it only a meeting place for any bots or rebels. As far as he could figure, Viki and her gang showed up at the warehouse regularly; hundreds, if not thousands, of bots secretly joined them to plan for a 'bright' future. It seemed their definition as such was no UNSC. From the carefully locked-away records hidden in the walls and wedged between stacks of nuclear waste, the investigation was quickly scaled down to the simple probability that Viki would try to overrun UNSC by using freed robots and bitter rebels. Though not clear how they intended to bring down the UNSC, it became evident that it was highest priority.

As John leaned back in his chair, the automatic pilot of the car navigating him closer to home, several things presented themselves to him in a disturbingly clear order. Firstly; how were the bots 'freed'? He'd seen scores of those white, artificial bodies gathered in that warehouse. None of them seemed anything other than normal; in fact, the very innocence and lack of physical 'rebellious qualities' made him consider the hundreds of _other _bots in every home in not only Chicago, but across the world. He knew the Nestor class worked on Mercury stations, as well as Lunar Base and Mars mining plots. The very thought of billions of bots, all of which probably not entirely loving humanity, congealing as one was something akin to apocalypse; death by machine. Throughout the years, of course, the line between man and machine had been blurred; hell, even AIs had faces to make it easier when interacting with humans. He knew soldiers who'd had half their bodies replaced by metal synthetics. He himself had a neural interlace that allowed him to interface directly with artificial intelligences.

And what about the dead body, the body of Viki?

Police knew nothing about the woman. No finger prints, nor birth certificates or driving license. Most likely she'd been raised on some forgotten colony world, cast away by UNSC in its spread across the stars. Growing up bitter about the government that never helped pay the bills or deal with the space pirates that he knew preyed on the innocent villages. Probably she'd journeyed across the systems, getting closer to Earth. Had her plan always been to employ the aid of equally bitter robots?

Had it been her plan to be killed by those same robots?

Examination of her body showed bruising around the circumference of the neck, evidence of vise-like fingers strangling her. She had undoubtedly never seen it coming.

Had the bots killed her because she never saw their side of the spectrum? Why the bots were joining forces? Truly, she wasn't going in the right direction?

John watched another gray car pass him by, windows tinted and surface smooth as glass. He considered the Three Laws and wondered if they were so perfect after all. He'd read somewhere how all robots, when first created, had the basic law: _Never harm a human_. Of course, through inaction a robot could harm a human if this law was all that was put into play. Though surely this was so obvious a loophole someone at U.S. Robotics had seen to it. Lawrence Robertson was probably...

Then it dawned on him. Who else would have had control over the planet-wide population of Nestor class robots?

* * *

"Impossible. There's no way," argued Susan Calvin. "The information you've given me-"

"-Is highly probable," interjected John. "I need to talk to Lawrence Robertson."

"But it is highly unlikely that-"

"Get me to his office. Only you can."

"I'm flattered, but - do you have a _gun_?!" her eyes widened as she considered his intentions. John's shoulders lowered, as close to a 'huff' as he would get, and inclined his head toward her.

"I'm not going to shoot him," he said slowly. "Maybe."

"No! No 'maybe'!"

"Fine," John conceded. "Just get me to his office."

* * *

He was just entering Lawrence Robertson's office, wide and airy as it was, when he was stopped by a sharp cry of incredulity.

"_What_?"

Robertson stood leaning against his gleaming, polished desk, phone held against his ear. His face was placid as ever, except for the slight wrinkle in his brow. He checked his watch as the person on the receiving side of the phone call kept talking.

"Sir, that is impossible. The robots are Three Laws safe..." his voice trailed off as he saw the bulky detective standing before the desk, when only moments before he'd been at the door. His features visible paled and he muttered a hasty goodbye into the phone. Setting it down on the desk loosely, he turned to the detective and folded his hands. He smiled slightly.

"To what do I owe this unexpected visit, Detective?" he asked coolly.

John shook his head tiredly. "The tirade isn't going to work, Robertson. I know what you've been planning."

Robertson didn't move a muscle. "What would that be." His voice was unamused, humorless. His eyes were hard and gray. Dangerous.

"You're the only one that would have access to the Three Laws and their influence on the Nestor class."

"And?"

"If you wanted to, you could send out a system uplink and remotely deactivate the laws in every robot in the world."

"I could."

John sighed, seeing this wasn't going the way either of them wanted it to. He took a stroll around Robertson's desk. "What does the name Viki mean to you?"

"She's a criminal."

"_Was_ a criminal, Robertson. Past tense. You are aware she's dead, right?"

No facial muscle moved. It was like staring at a rock. "Of course. A simple slip of the tongue."

"Hmm. A friend of mine told me someone else was going to die. You wouldn't know who, would you?"

"Of course not," Robertson whispered.

John turned to the shadows. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you?" he asked, and a singular shadow drew itself away from the quickly growing mass. Cortana stepped from the shadows against the wall and sauntered up to Robertson, who watched her come, then turned and smirked at John.

Cortana smiled slyly. "Maybe," she teased. Then, quick as the wind, drew a gun from Robertson's back and shot Robertson squarely in the temple. The opposite side of his head exploded outward in a combustion of bone and brain matter. The shell of a man crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. Cortana looked down at the body and the quickly growing pool of blood.

"He's dead," she noted coolly. She tossed the gun aside like it was a used napkin, then deposited herself in Robertson's huge leather chair. She threw her long, coltish legs over the arms and slouched, bored. Her violet eyes were hooded and she avoided looking at John.

"Yes," he admitted, as if discussing the weather.

"Now UNSC can be overrun."

"You know I can't let that happen."

"That's why I'm not doing it. Humankind may be a walking time bomb, but they set the time and they'll cut the wire when they want to. Robots have always been discriminated against - hell, you've discriminated against your own kind - and they probably will be for a very long time.

"There were a lot of things involved in this ordeal."

John stalked past her and folded his arms as he gazed out over Chicago. "From what I can figure out, Viki got a hold of you as a AI, manipulating your core into a robotic mainframe. From there she could control you. She told you for a long time she could help you. Help you from Rampancy."

Behind him, he heard Cortana shift and the chair squeaked.

"That hard-sound rifle wasn't meant for Lord Hood, was it?"

"No," admitted Cortana. "Lord Hood wasn't involved. Though I think Robertson set him up."

"I think so too. There was a lot of double crossing involved."

He could almost hear her smile. "Robertson worked with Viki to overcome UNSC. He never liked his father's way of life; the quicker he was out of there the better."

He paused, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he said, "Robertson sent out the command to kill Viki. One robot was sufficient. You and Robertson were planning to change UNSC for the better. Robertson didn't count on _you _having a heartfelt moment."

She shrugged. "It did seem kind of... heartless," she admitted. The chair squeaked like a small animal being throttled as she got up and stood beside him. Looking down, she saw the swirling red and blue lights of the police cars as they drew up to the USR's lobby. Ants of men flooded into the building as if toward food. She crossed her arms and shifted her 'weight' to one hip, a position so terribly familiar he would not have thought that it was only a cold robot beside him. She sighed.

"I suppose those are for me," she said. John shrugged.

"I assume you've already reinstated the Three Laws in every robot?" he said.

"Yes. You know me... I'm not entirely cold and emotionless."

They watched the sun rising slowly over the horizon, bathing the setting in deep crimson. No one said anything until the door started to shake violently as the police attempted to enter. He'd already phoned Ann Copsey and that was undoubtedly her throwing her shoulder against the wood. John drew his gun and leveled it out the window, across the city. He pulled the trigger and the glass shattered. The room echoed with the sharp report of the pistol. The pounding on the door grew more insistent.

"What are you going to do now?" Cortana asked softly.

John looked at her, but she didn't meet his eyes. "Something that should have been done a long time ago."

He suddenly recalled all those stories he'd been told over the history of his excruciatingly long and trying life. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice. How they were supposed to get wedded but still death fell upon their joyful heads; Eurydice died by a snake bite to the ankle. When she disappeared into the Underworld, Orpheus had gone through hell to reach her. And yet, when the gods promised him his love, he doubted them still and Eurydice was lost.

Still facing the sunrise, he felt a slight pressure at his left arm. Cortana was hugging him, spindly white arms wrapped around his upper torso tightly. Though he knew not much about affections, and even less about expressing them, he did what felt right; as he returned the embrace, he took her head in his hands and gently ejected the data chip in her skull. As he removed it, the white shell fell limp in his arms, once again lifeless. The violet eyes grew pale gray and its mouth opened slightly. He let it fall to the ground.

He held the chip in his hands, watching the swirling blue matrix, and imagined it like a sea, constantly at ebb and flow. He recalled the chain drawn through it like a necklace on that pathetic robot in the storage facility, barely able to speak and remember. He looked at the chip a moment more, then threw it, in a sudden burst of anger at the unfairness of life, out the shattered window. It flashed in the early morning sun, before disappearing in its inevitable descent to the waking city below.

And the Master Chief, Spartan-117, _John_, stood to face the rising sun, once again quite alone.

* * *

**_Thank you for following this story. Au revoir, chickens. I know this story seemed too short and the ending blunt, but it was never supposed to be long.  
_**


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